Ryan Ostrowski was born in 1986 in Vermont. Early on he was drawn to filmmaking. Even before attending Keene State College in New Hampshire, where he received his formal training in film, he had written and directed a number of short movies. After graduating in 2008, Ostrowski moved to New York City where his focus gradually shifted to photography and painting. However, his aesthetic in these media is still deeply indebted to a cine sensibility. Two of his recent one-man shows in New York were entitled “Tribal Pop.” The British art critic Edward Lucie-Smith wrote in the catalog essay accompanying the exhibitions of this body of work, “What I would like to suggest is that Ostrowski, with keen intelligence and a well-developed sense of humor, is presenting us with a modern harlequinade.” Ostrowski’s previous solo exhibitions include shows in Mexico, New York City and an upcoming group exhibition at bG Gallery in Santa Monica, California in 2017. Ostrowski’s work is in a number of private collections in New York and London. The artist currently lives and maintains his studio in Hudson, New York.
"You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who had ever been alive." ~ James Baldwin
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As she moves toward the dining room, the cleaning lady feels Mr. Enzo take her in, furtively, concealed behind his opaque black Ray Bans, drinking his morning kopi luwak, wearing byssus silk argyle boxers and an unfastened qiviut robe, pretending, she knows, to read Forbes, but he is plotting. Today, she thinks, today Mr.
Six outbuildings one, a small barn, no house and just one tree; obviously, once there was a house and, likely, more trees - and flowers. It was a family farm but the family is gone and the farming too, just grassland now. The soil was too poor, or insufficient rain, to sustain a farming life, or improvident decisions, or banker’s greed, ended hopes.
The past trundles through gardens, upending the peace of a sunny memory.
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